B00BKPAH8O EBOK

by Winslow, Shannon

  Those days would never come again. Her family seemed to be all dispersing in different directions. Papa was gone forever and Mama left at loose ends. Lydia had flown off to Plymouth upon her precipitous marriage to Mr. Denny. Jane and Elizabeth had their own growing families to occupy them here in the north, with Jane due to bring her fifth child into the world very soon. As for Kitty and herself, Mary wondered how they could possibly remain friends should they come to blows over Mr. Tristan. To win him at the expense of her own sister would sadly tarnish the victory; to lose them both would be unthinkable.

  Upon first receiving Kitty’s letter, it had appeared clear as crystal to Mary that she must act decisively, that she must intervene, that she must do something to secure her cousin to herself. Yet now that she was almost arrived, she had very little idea what – or even if – it ought to be attempted.

  So deep in thought was Mary that she failed to notice the approach of Heatheridge until the house itself was immediately before her. Then the momentum of the carriage grinding to a halt nearly sent her sliding from her seat. Mary recovered herself and hastily checked that her hair and hat were in order before exiting the carriage and making her way to the front door, which opened at once.

  “Good evening, Miss Bennet,” said the butler. He then directed a footman out to assist with the luggage. “You are expected,” he continued. “Please make yourself comfortable, and I will notify the family that you are here.” He pulled wide the richly paneled door of the drawing room for her.

  Mary entered, discovering that the room was not unoccupied as she had supposed. “Mr. Darcy! What do you do here?” she asked in surprise.

  19

  Heatheridge

  Darcy was already on his feet and coming forward to greet her. “Hello, Mary,” he said, taking her hand briefly and bowing over it. “We have been expecting you, although I daresay you had not thought to see me here.”

  She immediately searched his face for signs of alarm, saying, “No, indeed. Has something happened? Jane?”

  “Have no fear. Mrs. Bingley has been delivered of her child earlier than anticipated. That is all. And naturally Elizabeth wished to be with her.”

  Elizabeth herself hurried into the room then and embraced her sister. “Mary, how wonderful that you have come exactly now! You are just in time to see Jane’s newest – another boy, born only a few hours ago.”

  Her sister’s smile and animation went a long way toward dispelling Mary’s worries. Still she asked, “Jane is well? And the baby?”

  “Yes, very well. She will be so happy to see you. You must go up to her without delay.”

  “Oh, I would not wish to intrude at such a time. She will be tired.”

  “A little, perhaps. But she asked for you most particularly the moment she heard you had arrived, so you cannot refuse. Mr. Darcy, you will excuse us,” said Elizabeth, taking Mary’s arm.

  Darcy acquiesced with a nod.

  “You see, Mary, my husband is fond of no infants other than his own, and he would much rather sit here by himself. So come, let us leave him and go to Jane.”

  Elizabeth escorted Mary from the room and up the stairs. Then, as they approached the family bedchambers, a tumult erupted in the corridor. Four small and noisy bodies emerged through a doorway, followed by one larger: Mr. Bingley.

  “Come along, children,” he cajoled as he shepherded the brood before him. “You will see your mama and your baby brother again tomorrow. Now, however, it is time for your supper and for bed.” He looked up and smiled. “Ah, Mary, there you are! Come say hello to your nieces and nephews before I take them off to the nursery.”

  Mary stepped forward to meet them.

  “You remember the twins, Charles and Frances Jane,” he said with obvious pride, tousling the ginger-colored hair on the heads of each in turn. “And Phoebe, who is… how old?” he asked the little girl.

  “Four!” she shouted, displaying the corresponding number of digits.

  “Quite right. And here is John,” said Mr. Bingley, picking up the toddler, “whom we must now stop calling ‘the baby,’ I suppose. Say hello to your Aunt Mary, children.”

  They did, and Mary returned the greeting, remarking upon how much they had all grown since she last saw them. Then, with little John squirming in his arms, Mr. Bingley excused himself to continue down the corridor with his offspring in tow.

  “Mr. Bingley seems to be… a very happy and patient father,” said Mary.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Elizabeth. “And a great deal more involved with his children than the average man. I think I must give him the nod even over Darcy on that score, for Mr. Bingley has no reserves to overcome.” Elizabeth tapped softly on the door and then opened it. “Jane, dear, here is our sister Mary.”

  Mary went at once to Jane’s bedside, kissing her cheek and then inspecting the small bundle in her arms. Mary had never seen a babe so newly born before, and she was quite at a loss for what to say on the subject. She could not call the red and wrinkled face beautiful; all she could politely mention was its size. “He is so very… small,” she finished lamely.

  Both her sisters laughed at this.

  “For once, Jane, I think our more learned sister is at a loss for words,” remarked Elizabeth.

  “On the contrary, Lizzy,” said Jane. “Mary is exactly right. ‘Small’ is by far the best word to describe little Christopher.”

  “So Christopher is his name?” asked Mary, leaning in for a closer look.

  “I think so. We are trying it out to see if it suits him. Would you like to hold him, Mary?” Jane lifted the swaddled infant towards her. “You need not be afraid; you will not break him.”

  Mary cautiously took the sleeping child into her arms. “Why, he weighs no more than a kitten,” she observed. “I would not have thought it possible.”

  “’Tis a miracle,” Jane affirmed.

  They all three fell quiet. What more was there to be said? Mary certainly had no inclination to argue the stated fact, not with what seemed like irrefutable evidence before her. She studied the flawlessly formed lips and nostrils, the barely visible fringe of golden lashes along the closed eyelids. When she pulled the swaddling cloth back a bit, a miniature hand came into view, each exquisite finger capped with a transparent nail, thin as a butterfly wing. What other than a miracle could account for such perfection?

  Minute by minute, Mary grew more comfortable, and she even began to gently pat and rock her little bundle as she had so often seen other women do. All was well until the child started coming to life. The tiny body strained against its bindings, and the face grew crimson and contorted, finally erupting into a plaintive cry that broke the spell. Mary quickly handed the infant back to Jane.

  “He is hungry,” said the experienced mother as she untied the ribbon of her nightdress.

  Mary averted her eyes and turned to Elizabeth. “Did not Kitty come here to Heatheridge with you?”

  “No, she has not the nerves for the sickroom. Besides, I think she felt it would be impolite for all of us to abandon our houseguest.”

  “You mean our cousin, Mr. Tristan Collins,” said Mary flatly. “So Kitty generously volunteered to stay on at Pemberley and… entertain him.”

  “Something like that,” said Elizabeth with a sparkle in her eye. “Although I do not believe she considered it much of a sacrifice.”

  “No, I cannot suppose that she did.”

  Now, knowing that Kitty and Mr. Tristan were comparatively alone together there, Mary became more eager than before to get herself to Pemberley. Yet there was no question of traveling further that same night. Darkness was already closing in, and it would be unforgivably rude to fly off after so brief a stay with the Bingleys. She could do naught but stifle her worries, bide her time, and pray.

  And pray she did when she retired to bed that night – prayed that Kitty and Tristan would not commit themselves hastily, that she would be in time to intervene if necessary, that she would know how to act when she arriv
ed, and that God’s will would be done. The last petition was only grudgingly offered, however, for even if it were God’s will for her sister to have Mr. Tristan, Mary could not honestly desire it. Perhaps in time it might be possible. For the moment, though, she could not countenance accepting such an outcome graciously.

  When Mary came down to breakfast the next day, she found Elizabeth already there.

  “Good morning, Mary,” said she. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Tolerably well,” Mary hedged, not wishing to reveal how long she had tossed and turned, or the reason for it. “I am never totally easy the first night in a new place.”

  “And yet you intend to press on to Pemberley today?”

  “That is my plan, yes.” Mary perused the excellent fare spread on the sideboard, and found nothing that could tempt her meager appetite. She settled for tea and toast.

  “Then would you mind terribly taking an extra passenger with you?”

  Mary gave Elizabeth a quizzical look and waited for an explanation.

  “You see, I would like to stay another day or two with Jane, but Mr. Darcy is impatient to return home. If he can go with you, then I am free to travel in my own good time. You can spend a couple of days with Kitty, and I shall join you later. Would that be acceptable?”

  “Your husband is very welcome to travel with me, of course. It is the only sensible solution.” Mary tried to appear pleased when she made this answer, although inwardly she was thinking something entirely different. Three hours alone with Mr. Darcy? What in heaven’s name would they find to talk about?

  20

  To Pemberley

  Of course, she and Mr. Darcy would not be entirely alone. Judy, the maid, would be traveling in the coach with them. They would behave as if she were not there, though she would be always present. She would pretend not to hear, though she could not avoid being a silent witness to their every awkward attempt at conversation.

  Her longstanding acquaintance with Mr. Farnsworth should have prepared Mary in some measure for this protracted confinement with Mr. Darcy, for it now struck her that the two men were not unlike in certain ways – the same powerful presence, the brooding and taciturn tendencies, for example. Yet with Mr. Farnsworth, Mary had the children in common. They were the starting point for nearly every verbal exchange between them. What did she have in common with Mr. Darcy? Only Elizabeth, and an appreciation for books and music. She supposed those topics would have to serve.

  As Mary puzzled over how to begin, Mr. Darcy opened the dialogue himself. Five minutes down the road, he said, “This seems a very fine carriage. Your employer must be a gentleman of considerable means. Do you find him a just and principled man as well?”

  “I am not in a position to judge his character on the whole, Mr. Darcy.” It was true, and yet it had not stopped her from doing just that in the past, especially for his tyrannical outbursts of old. Still, a certain loyalty would never allow her to speak ill of him to others. “I can only tell you that Mr. Harrison Farnsworth has never been anything but honorable and scrupulously fair – even generous – to me personally.” Also true, Mary realized.

  “That speaks well of him. The proper measure of a man is not taken by how he treats his peers and betters, but in how he deals with those over whom he holds unconditional power – his wife, his children, his tenants, those in his service and employ. If he treats them fairly when he has no one except his own conscience to answer to, then he is honorable indeed. Outsiders do not know what goes on in another man’s house, and yet his servants do. Therefore, it is their approbation that is most worth the earning. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? I should much prefer it to the commendation of a lord.”

  “Truly? That is very well said, sir.”

  Mary was struck, not only by the laudable nature of his sentiment, but by its length. She could not recall hearing her brother-in-law speak so many words together before. He seemed to have exhausted his full supply at this, however, for not another did Mr. Darcy utter for a good half hour. The silence was not unpleasant. It was as if, having together already built a bulwark of conversation, they were entitled to rest comfortably in its protection for as long as they liked.

  Another occasional smattering of talk erupted to punctuate the unvarying noise of wheel and hoof on roadway, the clank and jangle of harness. Mary asked if Mr. Darcy was expecting a good harvest from the tenant farms that year, which was followed by his brief answer in the affirmative. He asked whether she had found anything especially worth reading of late, whereupon Mary described her recent forays into Shakespeare with the Farnsworth children.

  Ultimately, though, the rocking motion of the carriage, combined with Mary’s lack of sleep the night before, did its work; she drifted off and did not wake again until the equipage slowed, indicating their arrival at Lambton. Then she knew it was only five miles more to Pemberley.

  “May we stop at the first view of the house?” asked Mary when they entered the grounds of the estate. “I know it is a favorite prospect of my sister’s, and I should very much like to see it again myself.”

  “If you wish,” said Darcy. He watched for the place and signaled the driver to stop as they came out of the wood on an eminence twenty minutes later. “There it is.”

  Mary looked in the direction he indicated. “So handsomely situated,” she said presently in admiration of the grand stone mansion on the opposite side of the valley. “The builder certainly knew what he was about when he chose the spot.”

  “Indeed,” said Darcy. “I would never argue with you there. I have often blessed providence and my ancestor’s foresight, for my family has benefited by them these several generations.”

  As they were gazing at the distant house, a pair of riders on horseback raced across the vast lawn between it and the lake – a gentleman and a lady, it appeared, although it was impossible to be certain of more than that from so far away.

  “I wonder who they can be,” Mary mused aloud.

  “We shall soon find out, I should think,” said Darcy, signaling the coachman to drive on.

  They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door of Pemberley House. All the while, Mary’s apprehension increased for what she should discover there, as well as her anxiety for how she should behave. Was it pure selfishness even to try for Mr. Collins, or was it truly an act of kindness if it spared Kitty the unhappiness of finding herself mismatched in marriage? Would anything she could do or say affect where Mr. Tristan chose to plant his affection? How far should she go to promote her own cause at the expense of her sister’s? Since no answers presented themselves, Mary had to trust that her own conscience, as well as the behavior of the other two involved, would guide her rightly and rationally.

  She did not have long to wait for the first test of this philosophy. Immediately upon alighting from the carriage, she saw Kitty and Mr. Tristan Collins approaching side-by-side on horseback, confirming that they were the two Mary had observed earlier. Their flushed complexions and high spirits bespoke either their enjoyment of the exercise or their pleasure at seeing the new arrivals – no telling which.

  “Mary, how delightful!” Kitty exclaimed as she drew near. Tristan quickly slid from his saddle and then, with a firm hold about her waist, helped Kitty to dismount. “We were overjoyed when we received the message that you were coming,” she said, embracing her sister.

  “So good to see you again, Miss Mary,” added Mr. Tristan with a bow and a smile. He then reached out to shake Mr. Darcy’s hand, glancing into the carriage and saying, “Welcome home, sir. Your lovely wife is not is not with you, though?”

  Mary was glad the others were momentarily occupied with Darcy’s explanation and the civilities that followed, for she was at first too overcome to speak. Despite her determination to remain cool-headed, uninvited emotions had instantly assailed her. Tenderness and longing welled up within her breast upon seeing Tristan again. But when she turned to her sister, her rival,
her chest tightened to the point of aching. For a moment, she felt as if the combined pressure would burst her heart wide open, and it seemed impossible that her companions should remain unaware of her painful inner turmoil.

  Mary’s senses were on edge as she watched Kitty and their cousin, alert for signs of intimacy between them. Their mutual affection she shortly verified. The rest was more difficult to judge. Possibly there was more than friendship in the looks and pleasantries the two exchanged. There could be no doubt on her sister’s side; Mary knew that from her letter. But was Kitty’s love returned?

  Reasserting some control, Mary joined the conversation as best she could, saying, “You two have been riding, I see.”

  “Yes, Miss Mary,” said Mr. Tristan Collins. “Your sister was so good as to consent when I proposed the idea shortly after I arrived, and we have been several times since without yet exhausting all the beauties to be seen hereabouts. It is wonderful country, Derbyshire. Reminds me somewhat of my home in Virginia.”

  “So, Kitty, you are become a great rider as well,” stated Mary. “This is rather sudden, is not it?”

  “I suppose it is, for I would wager that I have been riding nearly as many times in the last few weeks as in the whole course of my life together before. I really cannot understand why I failed to appreciate the benefits of it sooner.”

  Mary struggled for some appropriate response. “Perhaps it is… the fine environs or better horses of Pemberley that have inspired this new passion. Longbourn can hardly compare.”

  “You wound me, Miss Mary,” said Tristan, clapping his hand over his heart.

  “How so, sir?”

  “I had convinced myself it was my sterling company that your sister found so irresistible, but now you have unearthed the truth: merely horses and scenery. My pride may never recover from the blow.”